


One Last Time

by Arithanas



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-03 12:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4100509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1629, Paris. A marriage had consequences, even for the servants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Time

Mousqueton was afraid that say goodbye to Grimaud was going to be hard, but apparently he did not know his fellow lackey.  
  
“My master will get married,” he informed in whispers while he was uncorking one Anjou bottle. The masters were celebrating the news. “I will go with him to Picardy.”  
  
Grimaud looked quickly over his shoulder to see if his master was satisfied, then at Mousqueton and shrugged. If the news had caused some excitement, it was not shown on his face as he took two bottles in his hands.  
  
“Good luck,” was all his comment.  
  
While Grimaud was to serve the table ―he was a natural cup-bearer, one had to admit it— Mousqueton was stumped in his place. The bitterness of indifference was too much, even if their relationship was simple camaraderie and it was anything but that. A notice of that caliber had to provoke more than good wishes. Much more, taking into account the years of serving together and the activities they had done and that had nothing to do with their service.  
  
The voice of his master forced him to take the issue of his head.  
  
The dinner was awkward, to say the least. The masters were too busy celebrating, Mousqueton had already lost count of the times that Bazin had traced the sign of the cross over his body; Grimaud’s eyes evaded his gaze, as usual, his attention was focused on M. Athos, although Mousqueton understood it: he also would focus on his master, if that was all he would avoid his bad mood. Planchet served in a hurry, his eyes were glued to the table, one could see that he weighed the food to calculate how much would be for them after the masters were satisfied. To some extent, all the lackeys expected the meeting to end soon.  
  
As those stomachs were filled and the bottles were emptied, things would develop as usual, even before Planchet could clear away the table, M. Aramis apologized with the excuse he always used; Mousqueton found very hard not to laugh at Bazin's face when he realized that he would not share the leftovers with their peers. M. Porthos asked for a set of dice, and M. Athos another bottle. Grimaud was the last to be free, as usual, and Mousqueton and Planchet devoted themselves to find a corner to eat their share and to separate the portion of their partner.  
  
Soon they were together, eating with their hands. It was a good fortune that Planchet was hungry because Mousqueton was determined to get more from Grimaud; but his silent companion was a tough nut to crack, and he was not budging. He ate with his eyes downcast, looking over his shoulder from time to time, watching every movement of his master and waiting for a signal. And the signal came, but not from the person they expected.  
  
“Planchet, my horse!” ordered M. D'Artagnan as he rose from the table in the middle of noisy laughter.  
  
“Time to go,” said Planchet, making a couple of slaps on the shoulder of Mousqueton. “I wish you well in Picardy, but it cannot be otherwise with a master like yours!”  
  
“Thank you, Planchet,” he replied with a laugh.  
  
The masters were separated with tight hugs. Mousqueton feared that M. Athos would leave immediately, a fear that proved unfounded when the noble lord rapped the table to call the attention of his servant. Through these silent signs demanded another bottle. Mousqueton took the opportunity on the fly, and grabbed the wrist of Grimaud as he tried to get up off the floor.  
  
“I ask you for one last time,” he whispered, locking eyes with his colleague.  
  
Grimaud hesitated, not knowing how to release his wrist without struggling and pressured to obey his master. He had to yield.  
  
“Two days,” he said, and took two empty plates to cover the delay. “Master will be on service.”  
  
Mousqueton nodded and let go of his prey, knowing when and where to find him.

  
  
**_***_**

  
The gathering place never changed, the stables near the Luxembourg were the perfect retreat where it was used to accommodate their masters’ horses; also had the advantage that the stable-boys were easily bribed and they only took the coins and gave them time to use the hayloft with discretion.  
  
Grimaud was always the first to arrive, Mousqueton used to find him sitting in a barrel or lying down in a heap of straw. These meetings had already established a routine for years, from that time when both were tending the horses of their masters. It all started with a simple word, raw in its content, vulgar in its expression, but wonderfully understood by both.  
  
“Horny,” said Grimaud lying on straw, with eyes staring at the ceiling.  
  
That night, Mousqueton believed he had overcome the resistance of his colleague, that it was a explicitly forbidden act and that factor incited Grimaud’s reluctance; now, he was not so sure. The years had shown him that Grimaud was a consummate bugger; there was no trick that he did not know, or a passion that was ignored by him. It was not a complaint, Mousqueton was satisfied ―he really was— until he learned of his impending departure.  
  
They met face to face, without a word; they both knew what they were there. Mousqueton run his hands through his lank hair, moving in to kiss those thin lips, that hairless face. Grimaud was more practical, hands were busy untying the laces of his fellow's trousers, with the confidence of a repeated act. In silence, they shared caresses as the clothes began to fall.  
  
Mousqueton stripped off his partner’s shirt, leaning forward to kiss that taut meat; his fingers caressed the back, tearing a groan from the other man. That flesh was marked red from the blows on his side; the caressed made Grimaud clenched teeth to master the pain. The Norman knew better than to comment, each time he questioned Grimaud’s master, his fellow took his clothes and retreated, sometimes muttering that he came for the fuck, not for the sermon. Mousqueton let his tongue lap against the injured skin, while Grimaud’s hand, full of some oily substance, caressed the member that began to harden between the legs of his companion.  
  
“You are always ready,” said lifting his head.  
  
A grim smile crossed the face of Grimaud, before he enticed him to the pile of straw. Mousqueton got carried away, using his hands to strip the rest of his partner’s clothes, using his lips on that compact and solid midriff, turning his attention to the hard dick, wishing to taste it for the last time.  
  
As soon as the last piece was dropped on the floor, Grimaud tangled his legs around the waist of Mousqueton, drawing him towards that place between his legs, the gestures indicating his availability.  
  
“I have not prepared you...” Mousqueton protested trying to be thoughtful.  
  
“I did,” said Grimaud pressing with the heel of the other’s lower back  
  
Mousqueton, using his hands to lift Grimaud’s hips, buried himself in the firm flesh that always welcomed him; his companion grunted and closed his eyes, panting as the invasion filled him with known and desired feelings. The rhythmic movement, known by both, was carried out fast enough to be pleasant without being rushed...  
  
Grimaud arched his back, rubbing his naked body against the clothed body of Mousqueton, groaning at each new invasion, with eyes tightly shut. Blindly, his arm sought the neck of his partner, asking him without words to come closer. Mousqueton knew what the other was asking him, his mouth for the lips of his bedmate while the free hand of Grimaud, the oiled one, stroked his own hardness, looking to get his pleasure. All this activity led to a pleasant discharge, which Grimaud silenced in Mousqueton’s shirt; who panted against his neck until his own hard meat poured his pleasure inside the body of Grimaud.  
  
They remained on the straw, gasping, stroking, waiting for their breath turned back to normal.  When both were able to breathe again, Grimaud rolled in the straw and began to wear the clothes that he had been stripped of. Mousqueton crawled towards him and touched his shoulder, trying to draw the silent one to the straw again, but he did not budge.  
  
“You asked for a last one,” growled Grimaud with a voice rough from lack of use while putting on the shoes. “I gave you a last one.”  
  
“It would not be the last...” tried to convince him, with his hands busy cleaning his crotch with his handkerchief. “You would come with us...”  
  
“No.”  
  
“My master appreciates you.”  
  
“Mine too.”  
  
“I don’t believe it.”  
  
“I don’t care!”  
  
Grimaud rose to put the shirt into his trousers and to tie them. Mousqueton suspected that he did it to get away from him.  
  
“Please,” he asked, rising from the straw, “come with me.”  
  
“No,” it was the immediate response. “We knew it would not last.” He threw his vest over his shoulders “Go. Marry. Have children,” with trembling fingers he tried to tie the laces. “Serve your master, I’ll serve mine.”  
  
Mousqueton approached Grimaud, stopped his hands, and tied the garment properly, as he would with his master. Then, slowly but surely, he raised his hands to caress the face for one last time.  
  
“I'll miss you,” said bringing his face close to Grimaud, seeking a kiss.  
  
Grimaud shook his head, avoiding contact. “Write.”  
  
Mousqueton nodded and stepped back, Grimaud made a sign to say goodbye and turned around to leave. Once his steps are lost in the distance Mousqueton sighed.  
  
“Really, I'm gonna miss you..."


End file.
